


Without You (There's No Me)

by parrillawilson



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Golden Compass (2007)
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Motherhood, aka mrs coulter pretending to know wtf to do with her own kid, five-year-old-lyra, the main focus in this fic is mrs coulter's battle towards motherhood, the masriel is brief but it's there, young lyra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:55:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27459079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parrillawilson/pseuds/parrillawilson
Summary: Stolen photos of Lyra throughout her childhood prompt Mrs. Coulter to remember a time when her experiments first reached Oxford, five years after the birth of her child. She finds herself denying the forces claiming she cannot see the girl and pays Jordan College a visit, with some 'unexpected' encounters along the way.(Spoilers for Season 2, Episode 1 of His Dark Materials)
Relationships: Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter, Lyra Belacqua & Marisa Coulter, Marisa Coulter & Lord Asriel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 76





	Without You (There's No Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I was lucky enough to be at the early screening of the first episode of Season 2 and decided I would write a one-shot inspired by my favourite scene in that episode. I love the strained dynamic between Mrs. Coulter and Lyra, and I know I'm not alone! I hope you enjoy! Please note this fic contains spoilers for s2e1!

The deep night’s sky, glittering with stars, cut through the Magisterium zeppelin’s wide windows in shades of pale light, illuminating the glowing yet troubled face of Mrs. Coulter. The woman was alone except for her golden-furred daemon, who perched a short distance away, granting her the privacy she silently demanded from her own conflicted soul. A long, drawn-out sigh was exhaled through her nose as she stared, head tilted up towards the inky blue mass dotted with white. The stars twinkled as though taunting the childless mother who had named her own daughter after a constellation. _Lyra_. It was not the first time she had gazed up into the darkness, wondering which specks of light might form that of her child’s namesake, always just out of sight. Thoughts of her child had faded over time. When people weren’t in your life, you could forget them quite quickly. Her daughter, however, was a marvel and had clutched at Mrs. Coulter’s heart years later. A tight grip that could never be loosened.

Despite the lack of sleep brought about by the arduous events of recent days, Mrs. Coulter felt wide awake. The cardinal was dead; her own doing, after _tending to his wounds_ herself. It would be her own sin, just as her affair with Asriel and the birth of their child had been. A necessary sin. Father MacPhail would rise as the new cardinal. Once upon a time, the ambitious woman might have fought over that power for her own gain. Now, her priorities had changed. A decision had been made. She would burn bridges with the Magisterium. Free herself from the patriarchal society she had fallen victim to and pursue other interests. Interests clasped tightly between her fingers. Photographs, discovered in the book of calculations she had swiped from Asriel’s laboratory, too curious to ignore them. The first was a photo of a girl she knew, or wished to know. Wavy-haired and wild-eyed, her daughter’s most recent picture. The second, a slightly younger Lyra with all the determination she had possessed at the girl’s own age. It was the last photograph, hidden beneath the others, that jolted through her as sharply as a bolt of lightning. A small child, mouth jutted into a heartwarming pout, holding a buttercup in her chubby hands. _Her_ child, whom she had given up as a baby. Her sweet girl who was too pure for the world she had been born into. Too good to allow a corrupt woman, full of wickedness, to mother in the way she newly longed to.

Repressed memories from long ago attacked the thick wall of steel surrounding the beating organ inside her chest. No, she had not been mailed photograms of her child as her former lover had. Yes, she had forgotten her daughter for many years. Ambition had clung from every bone in her body until her project had reached Oxford, where a younger copy of herself played within a stone wall, no place for a child. Unsafe and unsecured, despite scholastic sanctuary. Mrs. Coulter had diverted her travels to the city, where those working for her began to collect young subjects. She vowed to protect her daughter from a distance while continuing with vital research. Lyra would _never_ be harmed.

Already, she had witnessed the children who were drafted for the experiments scream for their mothers. They _always_ called out for their mothers, even those who seemed to be orphans or have distant relationships with their parents. It brought a great curiosity upon the young woman and, one day in Spring, five years after her baby’s birth, she found herself venturing onto the grounds of Jordan College.

* * *

Mrs Coulter drew eyes with her magnetically enchanting aura wherever she ventured. A college in Oxford was no different. As she approached the grand, stone archway bordering the grounds, the woman felt the stares of educated men linger on her form as she passed. Whether they recognised her or not was unclear and unimportant to the brunette who had eyes searching for only one, much smaller person. Having reached the college’s gardens, she paused as oceanic eyes drifted from window to window searching, seeking, longing for a glimpse of the baby she had given away.

A high-pitched, joyful shout hit her eardrums and the woman grew rigid as her golden monkey crept in the direction of the voice. A little girl’s voice. Mrs. Coulter sucked in a long breath, shuddering with how tense she held every muscle in her body as she waited. Few situations ever caused the woman to hesitate, however, as the girl and her daemon came hurtling unsteadily around the corner, the estranged mother simply stared at the product of her affair and could no longer regret her sinful actions.

“Lyra,” she breathed as her daemon turned back towards her, his eyes black holes of despair and longing. He wanted to approach the tiny, rapidly changing daemon, who charged alongside the little girl as they chased one another, playfully. Mrs. Coulter refused to permit him closer, resisting the urge to stamp on his long tail for considering it at all. They would not approach. Not now. Not _yet_.

Perhaps sensing the woman’s presence, or noticing the gleam of the details of her exquisite red dress, the child skidded to a stop, prompting a breath to catch in Mrs. Coulter’s throat. It was unmistakeably her daughter, their eyebrows were almost identical in shape and colour. “’Ello,” came the sweet yet excitable voice.

Lips ajar, Marisa gazed at a child she had never expected to set eyes on, entirely lost for words. In awe, she watched Lyra tilt her head inquisitively and stare her dead in the eye. Had she never seen a smartly dressed woman before?

Regaining control, Mrs. Coulter righted herself, cherry-painted lips stretching into a smile that she hoped was warm and inviting. The expression that would lure children from the streets for her project. However, the smile for her daughter reached her eyes, it was entirely genuine. “Hello, dear.”

“Who are you?” The child, _her child_ , looked at her with such fascination and innocence that for a split second Mrs. Coulter was tempted to whisk her away through the stone arch and take her back to London. Raise her the way she would have raised Lyra had she been born under different circumstances. It might not be too late.

Before she could answer the child, a panicked voice, accompanied by heavy, laboured breaths, approached, “Lyra? Lyra! Where’ve you gotten to?”

The magical moment had passed. An experience cut short that would enrage her for years to come whenever her mind drifted dangerously far from the path she carved for herself.

Instinctively, Mrs. Coulter stretched to her full height. Her expression, softer than any she had worn in years, quickly hardened as a plump, middle-aged woman rounded the corner. The older woman placed a large fist against her hip as she caught her breath and ushered Lyra towards her.

“Mrs. Lonsdale, there’s a fancy woman here!”

“Eh, a fancy woman, is it? Y’know better than talkin’ to strangers, Lyra. You’re too young to be outside alone. Anythin’ could ‘ave happened!”

Mrs. Coulter didn’t miss the sharp warning in the eyes of the newcomer, whom she imagined being some sort of housekeeper or governess, but still, she stood tall. Unfortunately for the glamourous brunette, the patriarchal society was not as lenient towards her wish to involve herself in her child’s life, even though she had changed her mind on raising her so early on. Asriel was permitted to visit whenever he pleased, leaving the girl in a place filled with aging men whenever he grew weary, and yet she could not be a mother to her own daughter.

“I was just leaving,” she bit out, struggling to maintain an air of calm sweetness, however fake, in front of the child. An eye twitched with the effort of it all. Meanwhile, a low, threatening rumble vibrated in the golden monkey’s throat as he stared the retriever daemon down. The woman turned, stalking through the arch without so much as a backwards glance. Her daemon followed at as wide a distance as acceptable in public, dragging his human-like feet behind him. His eyes were jet black pools of emotion; which Mrs. Coulter was not prepared to express herself.

* * *

The second time Mrs. Coulter visited Jordan College proved more fruitful than the first, though equally as devastating... Undoubtedly, if she had not caught a glimpse of her daughter the month before, she would not have felt compelled to return so soon. The delightful, inquisitive face of her child, so full of life, had tattooed itself onto the insides of her eyelids. Whenever she closed her eyes at night, she saw her. Even during her busiest days, recruiting young Gyptian children for Bolvangar, she would occasionally catch sight of a flash of wild, brunette hair or an excitable daemon that made it impossible not to wonder.

“Asriel. What a surprise.”

The two former lovers stood on either side of the stone arch. Mrs. Coulter’s expression betrayed no hints that her visit had been meticulously planned to coincide with when the man was rumoured to visit. Impeccable timing was one of her many qualities.

“Marisa.” There was no mistaking the flash of yearning in those blue eyes that a younger, less hardened woman had melted into countless times. “It’s been…”

“Far too long,” With a calculated smirk, the woman finished his words.

“Last I heard, you were conducting experiments on dust... The kind requiring the participation of children.”

“You would be a hypocrite to judge me considering your own projects…” Burning eyes narrowed before a sigh slipped through parted lips. “Lyra will never be harmed. I might have failed her in every maternal way, but you must be able to see I would not ever allow for her to be hurt.” Their stares were intense. A long pause filled the crisp air between them.

“You shouldn’t be here. You know that. _You chose this_.” With sharpened words, Asriel edged closer to Marisa. Stelmaria bared her sharp teeth at the golden monkey, who sat still as a statue, staring back unblinkingly.

“I chose _nothing_. I might as well have had Lyra ripped from my arms. The Magisterium would never have allowed me to keep her and you know that,” she whispered menacingly and refused to back down away from Asriel’s strong stance. “She is my daughter.”

“Ours. _Our_ daughter.”

“If she is _ours_ , why should only you be allowed to place yourself in and out of her life where I cannot?”

They were inches apart. Marisa could smell Asriel’s familiar cologne and it stirred a feeling in the dying organ beneath her ribcage.

“What is it that you want, Marisa? Why are you here?”

“I want _her_. Half an hour, that is all I ask. Do not deny me that.” A hand, with perfectly manicured, blood-painted fingernails, sought out his own, squeezing possessively.

* * *

Blinding rays of light filled the small college bedroom, minimally furnished with only necessities for a small child. Mrs. Coulter was perched on an old, wooden armchair, hands clasped neatly together in her lap. Less stiff in his own posture, the golden monkey sat beside her. His light, yearning grunts caused the woman to poke him sharply with her heel. As the pain subsided, the door opened and Asriel entered, their wriggling child held in his arms.

“Alright, Lyra. Settle down. I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine. She will be looking after you for a short while until I return. I won’t be long. Be good.” Placing the impatient child down on a small rug beside a few scattered toys, his eyes never once left Marisa’s. “Half an hour,” he reminded her, pausing momentarily to take in the sight of the three of them together, before leaving the room.

Mrs. Coulter was convinced she had seen some essence of the man she had once loved within his cold eyes. _Still_ _loved_ , if she was perfectly honest with herself. Neither of them were good at expressing their emotions. _Of course,_ he had left. No matter, the young woman had succeeded in manipulating her way to what she wanted. _Lyra_. The little girl who, again, stared at her so intensely.

“Hello, dear. Do you remember me?” Shifting her body weight forwards towards the child, she rested against her elbows, a loving smile brightening her expression. “My name is Mrs. Coulter.” She stopped and frowned in thought before her grin widened again. “But you, darling, can call me Marisa. If you’d like?” Would she ever feel such overwhelming happiness again?

“M’risa?” Brown curls fell over one dark eye as the child tilted her head, her small ermine daemon’s white nose poking over her shoulder.

“That’s right … and you’re Lyra.” Without an audience, aside from her daughter, and unable to hold herself back, she gracefully slid from the chair. Straightening her dress with both hands, she knelt down near the child, concealing a wince at the possibility of any dirt sticking to the expensive material.

“Yeah, an’ this is Pan.” Gesturing at the daemon, who scrambled forwards to sniff at the golden monkey, the little girl was equally as captivated by the new woman. “What’s your daemon’s name?”

“-Lyra, do you like living here? In Jordan College?” Marisa cut in briskly, ignoring the question entirely as well as the way her daemon stroked Pan’s tiny nose. Clumsily, yet with immense care he rarely ever displayed.

“Yes! There’s lots’a hidin’ places for hide an’ seek. Though me an’ Pan are too good at that game.” Lyra giggled, the precious sound causing a strange flutter inside Mrs. Coulter’s chest. Pan batted playfully at the monkey daemon, who took a cautious step backwards, though his paw remained, hovering over Pan’s back

“I am sure you are. You seem to be a very clever girl.” Relaxed by the childish innocence before her, the older woman reached out a soft hand to brush through wavy locks. “Does no one brush your hair...?” she wondered aloud, running her fingers through the lightly tangled, wild strands. “Why don’t you show me your toys. Do you like dolls?” In reality, Mrs. Coulter knew little about what children liked or disliked past the stereotypes. Although she had worked personally with the children contributing to her experiment, manipulating them magnificently, she rarely spoke to them on a deeper, truthful level. Engaging in conversation with Lyra was alien to her, every action felt unnatural to the point she doubted she was made for motherhood at all.

“Nah, I like runnin’ ‘round an’ stuff like that. I don’t care ‘bout dolls. The only kind’a doll I’d want is an ice bear. _Roar!_ ” Tiny fingers splayed, the little girl let out her own fierce impression of one of the panserbjörn.

A chuckle fell from Mrs. Coulter’s mouth, opened in amazement at the child who was so like she was, once upon a time. “Oh, darling, do be careful, the wind might change and your face will be stuck that way,” she teased. “What about your father, doesn’t he provide you with the toys you prefer?” If she had been in Lyra’s life, she would have given her the world. It was difficult to ignore the new, creeping guilt clawing at her heart.

“You mean my unc’a?”

“What?”

“My unc’a.” she repeated, simply. “Unc’a Asriel. He brings me things when he comes visitin’ but he always says he’s very busy...”

Although the child continued speaking, a mile a minute, Mrs. Coulter was no longer listening. “Uncle…” she whispered, under her breath. What a ridiculous pretense. “Lyra,” she stopped the girl with so much feeling seeping into her voice that the little girl halted at once. Big, rounded eyes peered up at the woman, whom she did not know, but already conveyed such a liking for through her sweet expression and the way Mrs. Coulter felt her hang on her every word. “What do you know about your parents?” Again, her hand returned to stroking gently. Caressing the girl’s face and her soft, wild locks. It was as though she weren’t a child at all, but an excitable puppy the woman was attempting to tame.

“They died … in an accident.” Her youthful face screwed up, an effort to remember. “Unc’a Asriel don’t like talkin’ ‘bout it much. I know all about them though.” Enthusiastically, the child nodded her head and began talking fast. “My father was the most amazin’ man. An explorer jus’ like my unc’a. He even fought with the bears. He was so strong an’ powerful. My mother, she was smart and kind. The kindest person ever in the world! She gave me the bestest hugs ever, but I was so tiny, I don’t remember them. I know she did though. I know she loved me. If my parents were alive, they’d never, ever let me go.”

Who knew that a minuscule version of herself and Asriel would have the power to knock all of the air out of Mrs. Coulter with words alone. Clearly, the girl had inherited her younger self’s vivid imagination. The golden monkey, who had taken to lying beside Pan as the younger daemon imitated his golden-furred shape, sprung to his feet with a screech, making the smaller daemon dart into Lyra’s arms. The girl’s wide eyes flashed with fear, though she sat still, holding Pan’s mouse form tightly in her arms. “M’risa?”

The pained confusion in the girl’s expression would have shattered Mrs. Coulter’s heart if it weren’t already broken beyond repair. Standing abruptly, she made for the exit, sucking a sharp breath through her teeth as she felt a hand against her skin, tiny fingers wrapping around her ankle. Although the grip was nothing compared to her own strength, her feet, in snakeskin heels, stopped as though stuck to the wooden floor.

“Are you ‘kay?” Such a naïve, caring voice belonging to a girl who had visions of a mother who was kind, loving, more than Mrs. Coulter could ever be capable of offering her.

“I have to go. Important business to attend to,” she answered, icily, as though speaking to a colleague, not her own infant daughter. Shaking her leg free, she hastily left, leaving her daemon trailing behind her. Betraying her deep emotions, he whined lowly, regretting that he was forced to follow his human away from the girl for the third time.

* * *

Memories faded over months and, having forgotten the strange encounter with the glamourous lady and her pretty monkey daemon, Lyra was overjoyed to receive a parcel from a mysterious sender. The Master of Jordan College had his suspicions about whom had sent it. The package contained no return address or signature. Asriel would only send postcards from his adventures up North, and no other mail arrived for the young girl. Despite his concerns, he saw no harm in giving the gift to the child in his care.

Lyra treasured her precious ice bear. He was beautifully stitched with realistic, soft, white fur and was the perfect size for cuddling as well as joining herself and Pan on their adventures. Their favourite game was tag, where she and the _king of the panserbjörn_ would chase after Pan and vice versa, all throughout the grounds of Jordan Collage. They darted, leapt and rolled, shrieking with laughter.

One warm day, as they fell, exhausted but overjoyed onto the soft grass, Pan lifted his inquisitive, furry face from side to side, searching for a flash of golden fur and the dark beady eyes he felt watching them as they played in their own little world.


End file.
